Angels on A Rampage
by Demented Amanuensis
Summary: Seven years after Voldemort's fall, Severus is finally ready to abandon a life of wild promiscuity and settle down with a Good Witch. But he's the last Prince, and therefore just 'good' isn't good enough. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy take it upon themselves to ascertain that she is, indeed, the Right Witch. In the end, it is the awesome power of Italian patisserie that saves the day.
1. Chapter 1

Note: "Angels on a Rampage" is the title of a song by Sunrise Avenue; it somehow suggested itself, seeing as Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy play a prominent, if not entirely successful part. The second part of the title is mutilated Shakespeare. (The Bard is most probably still spinning in his grave)

Also, be aware that this is crack!fic. Silly, adjective-laden and preposterous. I had fun writing it, especially this incarnation of Lucius as a slightly dim aristocrat with the attention span of a gnat.

Credit for the Animagus Potion goes to shiv5468 who, to the best of my knowledge, was the first to use it in her fic "The Beginner's Guide to Breeding Peacocks". It also inspired the author to have Lucius turn into a peacock.

The description of Manchester and Spinner's End may be a trifle too Dickensian, a liberty the author begs to regard as poetic licence.

**Part, the first**

**In which there is more background information than you can shake a stick at**

Spinner's End, a cramped, dead-end lane branching off Cranbourne Road, had never been of much interest to anybody but the people who happened to live there. The grimiest part of Chorlton-on-Medlock, a neighbourhood of Manchester hardly renowned for either cleanliness or safety, Spinner's End was not the kind of place people moved to intentionally; it was the kind of place they ended up in, to stay there – not out of any sense of 'home' or 'attachment', but simply because they lacked the strength to even dream of moving elsewhere. Till the 1950's, moving away from Spinner's End meant leaving it feet first, in a wooden box.

In the late 1960's and 70's, a first wave of urban renewal had done away with most of the unsanitary hovels of Chorlton-on-Medlock. Not, however, with Spinner's End.

While it is beyond doubt that Eileen Snape, née Prince, did not have more affection for the microscopic terraced house than she had for her husband Tobias, there can be even less doubt that the hard-faced, hook-nosed woman, whom her neighbours treated with the sort of grudging respect that is engendered by fear, knew very well where she stood economically and socially. An outing to Blackpool for seventh-year Muggle Studies had opened Eileen's eyes to that _other_ world, a shrill and gaudy vortex of multi-coloured lights, cacophonous sounds and unheard-of freedom; a second, clandestine outing had soon followed the first. Without her classmates she'd felt alien and insecure – easy prey for Tobias Snape. She wouldn't have had to marry him once she found out that she was pregnant, but she was seventeen and defiant. In the end, her family had cast her out with nothing but her wand and the clothes she was wearing; she'd married a drunken, violent loser, and she had a child. Eileen was aware that Spinner's End was where she was going to live out her days, whether she liked it or not.

Urban renewal did not fit in with this plan – for lack of a better word – and so Eileen had done what she did best: when word began to get around that the appendix Spinner's End would soon be surgically removed, and its population of human bacteria subject to the administrative equivalent of antibiotics, namely relocation, she hadn't had a moment's hesitation. A subtle spider's web of Distraction Charms and Rejection Spells had flowed from her wand, to wind and slither around the blackened dead-end lane, insinuate itself into sooty bricks and age-worn cobblestones, filter into worm-eaten wood and rusty metal. The inhabitants of Spinner's End – not an overly belligerent bunch at the best of times, except when it came to the misappropriation of clothes lines or husbands – got used rather quickly to retrieving what little mail they received from the "Pig and Whistle" on Cranbourne Road, in exchange for which service they made liberal use of the pub's dustbins for their own refuse. Not that it made much of a difference for the pub; the inmates of Spinner's End didn't have much to throw away.

Inaccessible to anybody but the dwindling number of appendix-dwellers, Spinner's End sank slowly into oblivion, an incongruously grinning skeleton swallowed by the quicksand of time.

Eileen Snape died in 1981, at age thirty-nine, young for a witch, while Severus, her only son, was imprisoned in Azkaban, awaiting his trial after Voldemort's downfall. The two of them had never been particularly close – as a matter of fact, Severus and his father hadn't been close, either, but Severus had adored Tobias Snape with all the desperate fervour only a mostly-absent, unloving parent is able to inspire in a child. Eileen – always there, bitter and almost pathologically introverted – had inspired nothing but an intense desire to get away from her and her nagging, as far and as quickly as possible. Severus Snape had later achieved this aim by taking the Dark Mark, whereas Tobias had embraced the bottle (rather more literally than metaphorically). Escaping his wife's bony arms and beady eyes might have taken a little longer, had he not met his fate in the shape of a blindingly drunk truck driver, who'd mown down the even more epically drunk Snape one foggy December morning on his way to the market. Chorlton-on-Medlock ate well that day: the piglets that had escaped from the truck were not so lucky when it came to the grasping hands of the half-starved denizens of Manchester's underbelly, and thus the day Tobias Snape died was one remembered fondly by his neighbours and acquaintances. Not to mention his wife, although her pleasant reminiscences had less to do with the tender pork chops than with the fact that she'd eaten them all by herself, and for pudding there hadn't been the habitual beating but a real, honest-to-goodness banana.

Severus was in his third year at Hogwarts when his father died; by then he'd understood that Tobias Snape had never had any love to spare for him. He didn't go home that Christmas, or any Christmas or summer vacation after that, and he didn't attend the funeral.

When he was told, upon his release from Azkaban, that his mother had been found dead three months ago by an elderly neighbour, after falling down the stairs never to wake up again, he merely shrugged. He did go back to the house, though. There weren't many people left at Spinner's End, and those who still shuffled about gingerly on the cobbled street that was just as dirty as he remembered it, didn't recognize him. He entered the house, _Accio_'ed his mother's meagre possessions, threw them in a shoe box without even looking at them and stored it in his parents' bedroom, disposed summarily of anything perishable, and left, never to come back again.

Or so he thought.

vvvvvvvv

There were times when all that kept Severus Snape from going stark raving mad was his sense of humour, as black as his hair, eyes and teaching robes put together.

It had been bad enough, having to live down his reputation in the years following Voldemort's disappearance (only the terminally stupid and/or optimistic – where was the difference, really – had believed him to be gone forever), but having to take up the mantle of double agent yet again was almost more than he could cope with. Hence the tendency to indulge in black humour: one of his favourite imaginary conspiracy theories was about a secret entente between Dumbledore and Voldemort, whose common and ultimate goal it was a) to divide the world amicably between the two of them, and b) to involve Severus Snape in their increasingly pig-headed schemes until his head exploded from sheer incredulity.

It ceased to be funny, though, on the day shortly after Sirius Black had Died By Veil, when both Severus' masters ordered him to reopen the house at Spinner's End, their requests separated by a mere three hours and phrased almost identically. Feeling that his salvation might easily become his downfall, Severus decided henceforth to abstain from developing his pet mental scenario any further. It was simply too difficult to distinguish from the truth to have any further entertainment value, and he'd have to figure out some other way to get through staff meetings with his sanity intact.

He had to go back to Spinner's End, though; there was no way he could wriggle his way out of that predicament. Dumbledore wanted him to use it as a bolt hole in case his plans (again, for lack of a better word) went awry, and Voldemort meant for him to have a place where he'd be far from Dumbledore's merrily twinkling blue eyes, a sort of habitable letter box where instructions were to be delivered and meetings to be held. Reasonably sure that neither Twinkles nor Slit-Nose were ever going to set foot into the safe house, Severus had done the only logical thing and asked both for an absurdly high amount of galleons, needed, nay indispensable, to renovate the building and make it habitable. Both had paid up with alacrity and without so much as a raised eyebrow (or the spot where an eyebrow ought to be, in Voldemort's case), and over the next two years Severus Snape's childhood home had been transformed into a comfortable, home-like place.

One of Severus' last thoughts, before oblivion took him on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, was that he would've liked to spend at least one peaceful evening reading on his brand-new sofa in front of his lovely new fireplace. Obviously, he thought snidely, fate had cheated him again. He was as good as dead, and no one would ever use the couch.

Or so he thought.

vvvvvvvv

While nobody in their right mind would ever call Severus Snape's house at Spinner's End an 'ancestral home', not even after it had been nicely renovated, nobody, whether compos mentis or not, would ever hesitate to call the Malfoys' family seat exactly that. Malfoy Manor was the quintessential ancestral home, and a stately one to boot. Any comparison between the two homesteads, however, began and ended with their concealment from the prying eyes of wizards and Muggles alike.

To those not in the know, the site where the Manor had been erected in the 1660's looked like a muddy, slightly uneven meadow of a shade of green so unappetizing that no cow, sheep or horse ever set hoof on it. Nestled in the Wiltshire Downs as it was, far removed from even tertiary roads, there was scarce probability of any human being ever venturing too close to the illusion; in case somebody did, though, they were immediately gripped by the irresistible urge to have their hair dyed blond. Such was Lucius Malfoy's sense of humour, post-change-of-heart. Had the local hairdressers ever found out about their benefactor, they would have worshipped him as their patron saint.

The select few enjoying the privilege of knowing the manor's location – the rest were admitted by Floo or Portkey only – could savour the spectacle of approaching the house and grounds on foot or broomstick. Lucius' great-grandfather Antoninus had carefully adapted the original brick structure to the taste of the 1830's by facing the brick with limestone, thus both softening and lightening its squat, Jacobean solidity into something almost-otherworldly Palladian.

One satiny, early summer morning in 2005, Narcissa Malfoy was languidly lounging on a chaise longue in the north-facing breakfast parlour; she had taken up a book and ordered a House Elf to float her last cup of coffee over from the breakfast table. Reading was a relatively new pastime for Narcissa; she'd taken it up during the years of house arrest she and Lucius had been sentenced to – much to her surprise reading, and reading _Muggle literature_ of all things, had really grown on her and proved to be even more rewarding than her previously favourite hobbies of shopping, having bitchy tea parties with other idle pureblood spouses and getting manicures.

It had also provided a welcome distraction for her and Lucius; cut off as they'd been for five long years from most of society, it would've been difficult to find subjects to talk about. Reading the same books and discussing them, however, was probably what had saved their marriage.

That, and Severus Snape.

This, too, had come as something of a surprise.

Of course, she and Severus were related, albeit distantly, and family ties were highly valued in the wizarding world, but she wouldn't have expected him to honour this bond any more than superficially, after all that had transpired during Voldemort's second reign. Nor would she have had any hopes for the ties of friendship linking Lucius and Severus to survive the strain of those horrible years. And while she was aware that Lucius' and her successful attempts at administering first aid to an almost-dead Severus had, indeed, established a life debt (though not the horribly choking kind that came from actually sacrificing one's blood, wealth or health), she wouldn't have thought it possible that Severus would feel compelled to move heaven and earth, throwing his own War Hero status into the balance, until Kingsley Shacklebolt gave in and conceded visiting rights to him and Draco.

Draco's visits, few and reluctant at first, had become more frequent after a while; Severus dined with the Malfoy couple once or twice a week, bringing gossip and news and smuggling in the occasional newspaper. Thus, the five years they'd spent in the confinement of their house and grounds had proved to be almost agreeable; she and Lucius had finally got to know each other, and if this involved the discovery that Lucius had an unsuspected, schoolboy sense of humour and a fondness for Asterix comics, then so be it. He'd borne her newfound enthusiasm for regency romance novels with admirable equanimity, after all.

"Devil's Cub" was one of her favourites. Not that she would ever have confessed to Lucius that she rather fancied imagining the two of them as the Duke and Duchess of Avon, with Draco as fittingly devilish offspring. Now, however, the novel was dangling from her listless fingers, while she sipped at her coffee and stared into the blue-green distance.

Was this the right moment for involving Lucius, or wasn't it?

In the years following the war they'd both derived not inconsiderable – and only ever-so-slightly malicious – entertainment from Severus' accounts of various encounters, affairs, dalliances and flings with witches of practically every age and shape. It had seemed as if the meaning of "twenty years of celibacy, cloistered in a boarding school with colleagues he didn't want to touch and nubile girls he wasn't allowed to" had finally dawned on the poor boy, and he was hell-bent on catching up. Had made a pretty decent (for some definitions of the word, at least) job of it, too.

It had, however, never been serious. Never anything but a few dinners and sex, maybe a weekend in some place so hot that wearing clothes was strongly discouraged. But never, ever, had Narcissa – or Lucius for that matter – had any reason to assume that the former Headmaster of Hogwarts was actually in love. In between his various affairs he'd always come back to them as their Third, and if Lucius hadn't noticed that their friend had been conspicuously absent from their bedroom for many months, well, Narcissa certainly had.

If that wasn't a sure sign...

And considering who the object of Severus' affections was...

Lucius was going to have _kittens_. This could be fun.

vvvvvvvv

Had anybody told eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger – the bright, the overachieving, the War Heroine, the rising star – that, at age twenty-five, she was going to be a pastry chef owning her own (and wildly successful) bakery, she would have told them to a) piss off, b) fast, and c) check themselves into St. Mungo's before she reduced them to a state that would necessitate a prolonged stay in the Spell Damage Ward.

On her eighteenth birthday, Hermione had been eager to return to Hogwarts, finish school, get as many N.E.W.T.s as possible and, thus equipped, set out to save the world.

She'd gone back to school and sat her N.E.W.T.s. She'd scored twelve, all Outstanding.

And after that she'd gone to Australia to retrieve her parents and restore their memories, or rather the other way round. Reversing the memory spell hadn't exactly been a piece of cake, but she'd been well-prepared; she'd succeeded where many a seasoned wizard or witch would have failed and, once everything had been explained and forgiven, she'd begun to work on persuading Howard and Gina Granger to return to their native England.

When she'd booked her Portkey to Australia, the possibility of her parents wanting to stay down-under hadn't even dawned on her. She meant to set things _right_, didn't she? 'Right' meant Mum and Dad living in England, in the cottage in Surrey which had belonged to Grandma Granger, commuting every day to London... This, as it turned out, was one of the many reasons why Mum and Dad were dead set against going back to England. Also, the house they'd bought with the proceeds from selling their dental practice, and the cosy little Italian restaurant they'd opened, first rented, then bought; Gina reigned over the kitchen, while Howard was responsible for managing and accounting...

In the end, Hermione understood. Even more, she accepted. And she decided to extend her vacation – Mum's pastry chef was due to start her maternity leave, an adequate replacement hadn't yet been found, and Hermione hadn't forgotten the culinary skills she'd been taught by her Italian mother (especially the to-die-for Torta alla Nonna, Cantuccini, Zuppa Inglese, Cassata – hence the obsessive teeth-cleaning habits).

She stayed for two years.

Hermione had expected not only to miss England and her friends (she did), but also research (not much), campaigning for the underdogs (not at all) and saving people (ha-ha). Once she'd decided to become Acting Pastry Chef Pro Tempore, she'd also dreaded considerable weight gain. But there was swimming, and surfing, and taking karate classes together with Mum – when she was finally ready to go home, she was fit, tanned and in possession of a hefty volume containing top-secret, family recipes. The cottage had been hers anyway; in order to avoid inheritance tax, Grandma Granger had gifted it to her granddaughter on her first birthday, and happily lived out more than the required seven years in a comfortable flat she shared with her two sisters.

In two years spent in a restaurant kitchen, making desserts, Hermione had found out the following truths: 1) a bit of foolish wand-waving saved a lot of time, and the sweets were every bit as scrumptious as the ones made by non-magical means; 2) while cooking was fun, dealing with guests was not her cup of tea; 3) a cutting-edge chocolate-and-almond cake was at least as likely to contribute to world peace as anything she could accomplish as an Auror, lawyer or healer; 4) if she found a couple of House Elves willing to be trained up and paid, she'd actually be able to devote her time not only to cooking and baking, but also to research.

It had taken three years for "Dolce & Grandioso" to lift off and gain a sufficiently broad customer base – both in the wizarding and Muggle world – and for the logistics of catering and delivery to be fine-tuned to Hermione's satisfaction; in the hot summer of 2003, however, she was finally able to look at the accounts, give a contented sigh, and open the box that contained the notes on a research project she'd begun during her final year at Hogwarts and abandoned in favour of travelling to Australia.

It had been paradoxical, really, to give up on this project of all projects in order to go halfway around the globe and reverse the _Obliviate_ she had put on Howard and Gina Granger, because what she'd been working on was exactly that: a potion to counter the effects of memory spells.

The idea had – hardly surprisingly – been triggered by her feelings of guilt concerning her parents. Besides, administering a potion was so much simpler than performing complex counter-spells. Still, being the practical young witch she was and all emotional entanglement notwithstanding, she'd weighted the possible benefits against the time and effort she'd have to invest. This, in turn, had led her to consider the applicability of such a potion, provided she'd actually succeed in creating it. Memory charms were, after all, used selectively and intentionally as a last resort: they were the wizarding world's one and only means of dealing with PTSD, as well as vital for ensuring the continued secrecy of the magical culture.

But – and this realization had provided the final push – _Obliviate_ was neither regarded as Dark nor was its use even closely monitored. The fact that she'd cast it on her parents with complete impunity was ample proof that, in theory, everybody was free to use it, and if in reality the wizards and witches actually skilled enough to perform it were few and far between, there was no guarantee that their prowess would be counterbalanced by moral rectitude. They had both the ability and opportunity to wreak considerable harm, and for those who had both opportunity and motive but lacked skill, well, Gilderoy Lockhart was just one of many examples.

The research had been even more demanding than Hermione had expected. After running into one dead end too many, she'd taken a step back and admitted to herself that, yes, she might eventually reach a breakthrough, but if she meant to get her parents back before their retirement, she'd better do it the traditional way.

Countering the effect of a potion with a counter-potion wasn't easy, but it could be done; the same went for spells and counter-spells (not your run-of-the-mill _Finite Incantatem_, which only negated the effects of basic spells, and not always all of them).

Countering a charm with a potion or vice-versa, on the other hand, was seldom attempted and even more rarely successful – there was a reason why Professor Snape had banished "foolish wand-waving" from his Potions classroom. At the time they'd taken his summary dismissal of spell-casting for a belittling of his colleagues, most of all Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, but during the N.E.W.T.-level lectures on Theory of Magic it had become clear that that hadn't been his intent at all. Or maybe not his primary intent. Performing spells in the vicinity of potions or their ingredients could have unforeseen, sometimes lethal, consequences; it was one thing to attempt the combination in a protected environment, but quite another to prevent the catastrophic outcome of thirty first-years simultaneously trying to levitate their bottles of armadillo bile.

The problem Hermione had to tackle was, a little oversimplified, this: firstly, and most obviously, a potion's efficiency was determined solely by its shelf life, the potency of its ingredients and the skill of the brewer. Neither the potion-maker's magical power nor his or her intent were able to change the way a potion worked. A lethal poison was a poison and would kill, whereas an _Avada Kedavra_ cast without the complete determination to kill would cause harm but not take a life.

This was true for all spells, curses, charm, incantations, and the like. The wand, its movements and the words were mere vehicles on which travelled the caster's intent and magical power.

Not only were wand-magic and potions-magic polar opposites, they also affected their target in diametrically opposed ways.

Obvious as these observations were, it seemed to Hermione that nobody had bothered with them ever before. But they were also only the beginning, and she had no intention of merely scratching the surface. Taking observations at face value, though, shrugging and moving on, was what wizards had been doing for millennia. The notion of turning a concept on its head was alien to them. Not so to Hermione.

Never mind that McGonagall sent her on her way with a few words of choice advice that she ought to get a life; never mind that Flitwick went all shifty-eyed and evasive and talked a little incoherently about "arcane" and "better left in peace"; never mind that Slughorn tried to slake her thirst for knowledge by administering candied pineapples and got seriously cross when she demanded answers, no sugar coating please. They were all purebloods, and they were the only experts she knew at the time.

When she decided to let the project lie for a while, she had formulated a working hypothesis – testing it would have to wait, because not only was she going to need a mentor, there was also considerable cost involved. Hermione was a reasonable girl; she knew exactly when to stop and husband her energy. Her time would come, she was sure, and her foray into bakery didn't change that conviction.

After a break of more than five years, the hypothesis had lost nothing of its simple beauty.

But now Hermione saw herself confronted with a problem of a rather different nature: she had always done well in Potions; in Charms, however, she'd excelled right from the beginning, and so it had seemed logical for her to start working on that side of the problem. It was the discipline that allowed her to be creative and innovative without needing the guidance of an expert. When it came to Potions, she'd have to get help sooner or later, and she knew who she'd have to get it from.

Come to think of it, this might have been the real reason why she'd neglected the Potions aspect for so long. If she was quite honest with herself, it _was_ the reason.

She would have to face her own private Canossa. Contact Snape. Tell him what she was working on, face derision, belittling and cutting sarcasm, swallow it all and persist in her plea for help.

'Unpalatable' didn't even begin to cover it.

For months and months she had invented excuses that wouldn't have fooled the simplest of minds; like Sisyphus his rock, she'd pushed the issue ahead of her, only to have it come back down, crushing her and making her miserable. Once she'd had enough of being miserable, she'd sat down and written to Snape, and written again, and again, but never received so much as a sign of acknowledgement, let alone an answer.

Considering how she'd planned her life and how it had turned out, she really should not have been surprised when, in the end, the Gordian Knot hadn't been cleaved in half by an act of supreme willpower but had simply crumbled apart under the awesome power of Italian patisserie.

vvvvvvvv


	2. Chapter 2

**Part, the second**

**In which there is History, and some more background information**

The satiny summer morning had turned into an unseasonably sultry day; Lucius and Narcissa had decided to seek shelter from the moist warmth in the perfectly-tempered depths of the lake.

It would probably have come as a shock to many an upstanding pureblood that the blond couple, who never looked anything but perfectly groomed and attired, actually had a fondness for skinny dipping. Given that both impeccable grooming and the penchant for swimming in the nude had their root in unparalleled narcissism, it wasn't all that surprising, really.

Both Malfoys took excellent care of their bodies and were proud of them (not to mention a tad more attracted to their own than their partner's, but that's narcissism for you); displaying them as nature had made them in the privacy of their own grounds therefore didn't strike them as eccentric in the least. An uninvolved bystander – a very, very hypothetical one, and most likely dyed blond – might be a little flummoxed by the fact that this slender, ivory-skinned Goddess was quite obviously more fascinated by the way a perfect, white breast crowned by a rosebud nipple perked up just so under a trickle of cool water, than by the play of muscles on the chiselled thigh of the God next to her. The bystander might also have wondered why the God's flawlessly-formed penis remained flaccid when the Goddess reclined lazily and spread her milky thighs, whereas it showed distinct signs of interest when the God traced his sculptured abdominals with lazy fingers.

Lucius and Narcissa had always found this perfectly normal. After all, the multitude of mirrors in their bedroom had been installed so each could admire the perfection of their own limbs while engaged in intercourse with each other or, as the case may be, their raven-haired Third.

Sufficiently refreshed and pleasantly exhausted by their hour-long swim, the couple had retired into the shade of an ancient oak tree, where the House Elves had laid out a light but sumptuous lunch. The diaphanous tent of mosquito netting, under which they were resting, was strictly unnecessary and merely decorative – reading "Out of Africa" had left Narcissa with a preference for the exotic touch. Lucius had drawn the line at acquiring a biplane and learning how to fly it, though.

"You," Lucius remarked, while carefully coaxing the cork from a bottle of champagne, "are looking somewhat preoccupied."

Narcissa's right forefinger strayed immediately to the bridge of her nose to check for vertical lines between her eyebrows. "I can see it in your eyes," her husband clarified, and the finger returned to its previous occupation of idly circling her kneecap.

Her answering "Mmh" got a raised eyebrow from Lucius. "Would you care to elaborate, my dear?" He handed her a flute.

"Yes and no," Narcissa said pensively. "Yes, because I would like to share my concerns; no, because I'm really not in the mood for one of your sulks right now."

"You didn't just say 'one of your sulks' did you?" Lucius inquired over his shoulder, busy storing the bottle in its ice bucket. "Because 'one of' clearly implies that there are more than one, and since I haven't ever sulked, the plural is as inappropriate as the insinuation is, frankly, insulting." He tipped the rim of his flute against hers. "Your health, my darling – I may be too forgiving, but somehow I am loath to mar the perfection of this day by having an altercation."

"As am I," Narcissa agreed. "Still, it is a matter of some interest, which we'll have to discuss sooner or later."

"Then you are most welcome to share it with me. Lobster salad?"

"N-no. I'd rather have some of that trout in aspic, please."

A few flicks of Lucius' wand took care of their starters. "Well," he said, "no moment like the present. What _is_ troubling you, dear?"

"It's about Severus." She delicately cut a small bite off the trout.

"He hasn't got himself in trouble, has he?"

"That strongly depends on your definition of 'trouble'. But I won't beat around the bush." She took a sip of champagne. "Our dear friend is in love and, to use a somewhat pedestrian expression, he's got it bad."

Lucius snorted. "In love? Really? Well... if nothing else, it does have a certain entertainment value. Are you sure he's serious?"

"Oh, yes. He invited me to have tea with them, and if I wasn't so fond of him, I would say that he was being pathetic. Like a young girl bringing home her first boyfriend, all anxious and fluttery whether her parents are going to approve."

"And did you? Approve, I mean?"

"That," said Narcissa, "is exactly where the dilemma lies. In principle, I approve, but considering it's Severus we're talking about..."

"Oh, absolutely." He twisted, reaching for the bottle. "Supposing that you will probably want to invite her, too, when we're in the mood for... company, she ought to have black hair and eyes as well. Otherwise the whole colour scheme would be shot to hell."

Narcissa accusing her husband of being superficial was definitely a case of pot-kettle-black, and she knew it, but that didn't keep her from uttering the accusation.

Lucius looked wounded. "Are you saying aesthetics aren't important?"

"All I am saying is that, where Severus is concerned and in this particular situation, they are secondary to more important concerns."

"More important?" Lucius glanced heavenwards, probably to implore the deity _du jour_ to give him strength. "Very well, ridiculous though the premise may be, let's go along with it. Surprise me."

"Our Severus," Narcissa announced in grave tones, "has fallen head over heels for Hermione Granger."

If she was surprised by the cherubic smile illuminating her husband's features, she certainly didn't let it show.

"Call me superficial-"

"I just did, my darling," Narcissa said.

"But anybody who successfully woos the creator of the Esterhazy cake with rum icing has my unreserved, if slightly envious, blessing," Lucius finished his sentence. His smile grew even more beatific as he pronounced 'rum icing'.

"I enjoyed that cake every bit as much as you did," Narcissa replied archly, "and maybe even more. That notwithstanding, Severus is the last Prince."

"So?"

"Oh, Lucius. Don't you remember…" She cocked her head. "Or wait – is it possible... Could it be that I've never told you about Edward's prophecy?"

vvvvvvvv

Unlike other European countries, England had not seen too many witch hunts in the Middle Ages. There was, however, a notable difference between the neighbours being tolerant of the old crone with the warty nose, who brewed cough medicine for the children and augmented the village's livestock by drawing runes on the cows, pigs and sheep, and, on the other hand, the whole of England accepting that the eldest son of the King of England, Edward of Woodstock, later to become the Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales, was a wizard, and a powerful one at that.

Edward wasn't sent to Hogwarts but received private tutoring; qualms about magical folk aside, it was unthinkable not to train the boy properly and leave his considerable power unharnessed. His abilities had to remain absolutely secret, though. Silence was bought or, in a few cases, achieved by the simple expedient of a well-placed dagger or arrow. As for Edward himself, not a day passed without one of his tutors impressing on him the need to keep his magic well concealed. He did follow these instructions to the day he died, but secrets of this magnitude have a way of getting around even the strictest security measures. In the end, the truth will out, and in this respect Edward's case was no different: it took more than 150 years for the dreaded nickname to surface again, but surface it did, and it stuck.

Fearful maids and sneaky stable boys had been muttering it since Edward's fifth birthday, the day his magic had erupted for the first time: Edward, the Black Prince.

Confundus Charms and a subtle _Impedimenta_ here and there had gone a long way towards cementing the prince's fame as one of the most successful military leaders England had ever seen; before his marriage to Joan of Kent, though, the hot-headed young man hadn't refrained from using the odd _Imperio_ in order to gain the favour of pretty but unwilling maidens. He had fathered several Quidditch teams of illegitimate children, but only two of them were magical. Although both boys – one fair, one dark – could never be in any way acknowledged, Edward felt a special affection for them. One of his trusted stewards was sent forth in search of suitable husbands, who could be relied upon to keep their mouths shut and their cuckoo-egg sons from harm: the burly young farmer who was to wed the flaxen-haired milkmaid and raise the blond boy as his own was told to assume the name of Black and relocate to Oxfordshire, whereas the blacksmith's son (too slender and dreamy to take up his father's profession in any case), who had been settled with the feisty redhead and her raven-haired son, was sent up North under the name of Prince. Never let it be said that Edward didn't have a certain quirky sense of humour.

The Black Prince died shortly before his forty-sixth birthday; it wasn't quick or heroic. Not in his prime anymore, he succumbed to the amoebic dysentery he'd caught ten years before in Spain. Days and weeks of drawn-out suffering and delirium tore down the barriers he'd erected to conceal an ability he'd suspected he might possess but never consciously used or even recognized: in moments of great distress or tranquillity he saw glimpses of the future. Mostly they were images of events not too far removed from the there-and-then, but while he was writhing and shivering on the bed he knew was going to be his deathbed, his inner eye widened in wonderment, for what he saw did not belong in his era. So close to the brink of death, he knew with absolute clarity that the images swirling in his mind didn't form a prediction so much as a warning: unless certain events came to pass, and conditions were fulfilled, the Black and Prince lines would be extinct in less than a hundred years. More images, more portents – another decisive point was to be reached when, by mutual consent, wizards and Muggles parted ways, the better to ensure protection from and for each other; then, a long period of prosperity, family trees flourishing and expanding, and then... The dying man shuddered. Then, darkness. A darkness that was not absence but negation of the light, and sweetly, alluringly powerful. A darkness that would devour the last of the Prince and Black lines, unless...

Edward saw it quite clearly: if the last Prince and the last Black succeeded in freeing themselves of that all-encompassing temptation, if they were courageous enough to change sides and actively fight it, the families would flourish once more, and brighter than ever. But only if they bound themselves to the right mate. For the last Black – a _woman_? Edward gripped the linen sheets tightly enough to tear them – finding her mate would be easy enough, for brightness would be drawn to brightness. The last Prince... There would be a mark on his mate, but how, how would the unfortunate Prince ever be able to discover it in a place his hands and eyes were barred from until the wedding night? An impossibility, certainly, but then why would God show it to him as a possibility? Was the last Prince to wed a strumpet, a common whore? If that was the price... But look at the generations upon generations that would spring from their union! Too desirable, too utterly magnificent a thought, to be sacrificed to scruples, however noble. But what if the last Prince wasn't sufficiently pragmatic to set them aside?

The vision was fading, but Edward held on to it grimly, with the last of his strength. He called for his surgeon; after he had been bled, and his sheets changed, the Black Prince felt a little better. He summoned his secretary, wheezed at the courtesans, servants and counsellors crowding the room to leave him alone with the amanuensis, and began to dictate two messages which he hoped would travel safely to the distant future, across more than six centuries.

vvvvvvvv

Dressed to the nines and looking as un-nude as humanly possible, the Malfoy couple sat down to dinner.

"That was an interesting story," Lucius observed, unfazed by the fact that two hours had gone by since Narcissa finished it.

"If you found it so interesting, why did you doze off halfway through it?"

"There, there." He patted her hand. "There's no need to be snide. It was a hot day, and-"

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Just tell me the last bit you remember."

After tasting the wine and deeming it acceptable, Lucius smiled faintly and flicked a strand of hair back over his shoulder. "That must have been about Edward dictating to his secretary. Feel free" – he picked up his knife and fork – "to skip over the intervening centuries and dive right into the present. What does the prophecy say?"

"Charming as always." Narcissa glared, then decided that glaring might lead to crow's feet and chose instead to sample the pâté. "And of course I don't have the faintest idea what the prophecy says. It stands to reason, though, that there must be some mark on the girl. But what kind of mark, I don't know."

"You don't... But..."

"Don't gape, darling, it's a very unbecoming look on you. The prophecies were handed down the generations separately, Black to Black and Prince to Prince, so of course I don't know what the Prince part is about. What I do know, though, is that it still exists. Or rather, that Severus' mother still had it. There is an... awareness, I would call it. A sort of vague feeling that whatever has come to pass is what should happen, according to the prophecy – the families are linked, after all, and I would sense it if the prophecy had been lost or destroyed."

"Hm. If you are sure..." Lucius put down his cutlery. "However, I don't quite understand why _you_ are the last of the Blacks and not Andromeda?"

"I'm the eldest surviving child of the main family line," Narcissa explained in slightly tetchy tones – she didn't like to be reminded that such a thing as age existed, let alone that she wasn't exempt from its rules.

"I see. What interests me strongly, though, is how you can be so sure that you have fulfilled your part of the prophecy – much as it pains me to ask the question, it seems unavoidable: am I your destined mate? I don't recall you looking for any marks on me, and-"

"Of course you are," she interrupted him. "Brightness shall be drawn to brightness, are the exact words. Though I have to say that your more than usually obtuse inquiries lead me to believe that they might only refer to its more outward aspects."

Nostrils flaring, Lucius sat up straight. "Madam, I strongly resent this offensive comment."

"Let's not argue, my darling." Narcissa put a hand over his fingers. "There would be the make-up sex later, but I think that, right now, we have more important things to discuss."

"Very well," Lucius replied. "So, how do we find out whether Hermione Granger is – wait a second, how did they even meet?"

vvvvvvvv

Comfortably lounging on his couch in front of the fireplace, cradling a glass of brandy and inhaling the scent of the cigar he was about to light, Severus Snape allowed the sensation of utter contentment to envelop him.

Seven years ago, give or take a few months, he had been fully prepared to die. The stay at St. Mungo's, after Lucius and Narcissa had resuscitated him and dosed him with antivenin, had been long and by no means pleasant, but he'd emerged from the hospital a new man. Gone were the memories of Lily Potter, which he'd given to her son and insisted that he keep them; the faint traces they'd left in his mind did not bother him at all – on the contrary, they rather served as a slightly melancholic backdrop against which his current state of permanent gratification shone all the brighter.

He had his own house which, thanks to two now-deceased megalomaniacs (the money coming from Voldemort had actually been Lucius', who still got this slightly pinched look whenever he deigned to visit) had been turned into a comfortable, if not luxurious, home.

He had a monthly pension, paid by the Ministry and fed by the heavy fines former Death Eaters and collaborators had been subjected to – again, Lucius had had to cough up at least part of it, which lent a piquant note to the overall feeling of smugness. An extremely lucrative contract as a consultant for the Department of Mysteries ensured that he had just enough work to do, so as not to be bored, but was free to decide which tasks to take on and which to reject – more than anything, being master of his own life in this way had contributed to his mental healing. It had taken some time, but in the end he'd understood, not just with his mind but with his whole being, that he was finally free of bonds and guilt and obligations.

The years following this realization had been a little on the wild side, but fortunately he'd salvaged his relationship with Lucius and Narcissa. The regular visits he'd paid them during their house arrest had grounded him, as had the duty – freely taken up – of making sure that Draco, too, found his way back to a normal life and healthy relationship with his parents. This had seemed all the more important because the boy had married young; his son Scorpius, who'd been born almost exactly nine months after the wedding, had been both motivation and handy opportunity for reconciliation.

Scorpius, now aged four, was Severus' godson. He was also the Cupid who had brought about what Severus deemed to be the most fortuitous stroke of luck in his whole life: parents and grandparents alike did, of course, spoil the Malfoy scion rotten; the boy's birthdays habitually were a culmination of the concerted attempts of four besotted relatives to get Scorpius high on adrenaline, sugar and – to be fair – limitless love. Plans for the celebrations were made months before the event, and the relationship between parents and grandparents took on a decidedly competitive edge when it came to surpassing one another in creativity.

The fourth birthday had, rather unsurprisingly, shaped up to become an even more epic event than the first three. Among other activities designed to entertain Scorpius and his fellow toddlers, Draco had sought and found his inspiration in Muggle fairy stories: a re-enactment of a few scenes of Grimm's fairy tale "Hansel and Gretel", with a Wicked Witch's house made entirely of cake, the demolition and consumption of which was to be the apotheosis of the party. It went without saying that the delicate buds adorning the finest of England's magical family trees couldn't be served just any old cake; no, it had to be the very best.

Severus had excused himself from the ensuing heated discussion between the four Malfoys, and had therefore not been entirely privy to every detail of their plans. Hence his surprise, when he arrived at the Manor a couple of hours before the party was going to start, and saw none other than Hermione Granger, directing a platoon of House Elves and expertly wielding her wand to put the finishing touches to the Wicked Witch's hut, while Narcissa was none-too-patiently explaining to her sulking husband why it was _not_ a good idea to put rum icing on confectionery that would be eaten by four-year-olds.

He'd recognized her instantly, although her hair was now cut short, and she'd grown another inch or so since the last time he'd seen her. Not only that; she'd filled out in an immensely alluring fashion, and while he was busy getting control over his body's enthusiastic reaction to smooth, golden skin, pert teacup breasts and lush derriere, he couldn't help but notice that underneath the perfect curves there was solid muscle, and that the young witch was still as bossy as a drill sergeant. In one word, irresistible. The scent of sugar and spice and all things nice that seemed to emanate from her very pores didn't hurt, either. Severus had felt as if Cupid had hit him with a sledgehammer made of spun sugar.

It had taken a short while for her proverbial bossiness to manifest itself with the force he'd come to know – and often heartily curse – during his tenure at Hogwarts.

At first she'd merely stood staring, apparently rooted to the spot and so completely flabbergasted that the sugar icicles she'd just been affixing to the edge of the roof escaped her weakened _Wingardium Leviosa_ and embedded themselves in the lawn.

"Professor Snape!"

He saw peacocks hide their heads in shame and envy of the sheer volume and pitch she'd achieved, and then felt as if he'd been hit by a small but shapely freight train. Without any regard for etiquette, shards of sugar icicles or his possible reaction, Hermione Granger propelled herself into his arms.

So close to him she smelled even better – an entrancing confectionery of sugar, fresh air and Granger.

There'd been tears and a few incoherent, stammered words, but after a mere two minutes the drill sergeant reasserted himself.

With a vengeance.

"Do you have any idea how many owls I've sent you? How many times I've sent my Patronus?" She took a step back, chin jutting and fists firmly planted on her hips.

"I'm sure I'll be able to oblige you with the exact number. Just give me five minutes to go back home and get my notes." Sarcasm was still his weapon of choice, but he felt that the most he could do was protect himself. At least until he'd managed to regain his balance, if he was lucky.

"That," she snapped, "won't be necessary. Anyway" – she gave him a once-over – "you're looking well. I suppose you're Scorpius' godfather? Just as I thought. Let me finish this, and then you can make up for your churlish behaviour – I'm sure there's some room in this house that hasn't been covered in completely bizarre decoration-"

Not a freight train, Severus thought. No, a tidal wave, a tsunami, a hurricane that plucked him off his feet and carried him with elemental force… Sarcasm was as useful against its merciless power as throwing a boiled egg at a bomb-diving dragon. He was unable to protect himself, Lucius and Narcissa were still arguing about rum icing, Draco was nowhere to be seen… He was defenceless. So maybe he ought just to accept his fate and try to make her see him in an entirely new light. "You'd better watch your tongue while Lucius and Narcissa are within earshot," he said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? They must know that these decorations are bizarre!"

"Oh, they do. They do. Just never…" He bent down until his lips grazed her ear. "Just never call the Manor a house in their presence."

The gooseflesh on her throat.

The throaty chuckle, followed by an unladylike snort.

Severus Snape was well and truly hooked.

vvvvvvvv

"But…" Lucius frowned.

They had moved from the dinner table to the terrace, to enjoy the mellow, rose-scented evening breeze. Lucius was sipping brandy, while Narcissa had opted for another glass of champagne – it was making her pleasantly dizzy, as if she were drifting on the balmy air. "But what, dearest?"

"But… I was there. I saw them talk – somehow I didn't have the impression that there were sparks flying, or that there was a special sort of chemistry between them."

Narcissa smiled indulgently. "Of course not, my darling."

"But you said-"

"Lucius, dearest," she interrupted him, "you are a wizard."

"I am well aware of that fact, thank you."

"I wasn't referring to your considerable magical power, but to the fact that you are a man."

Eyelids drooping, Lucius smiled lasciviously in a way that said that he could both have the cake and eat it. Repeatedly. Making the cake beg to be eaten again. "Ye-es?" he purred.

"Since you are a man, your powers of observation are somewhat lacking, especially at a time when you are thinking about rum icing. Don't argue," she said, holding up a hand to forestall Lucius' protest, "because you know it's the truth. In any case, the when and where is beside the point. Severus is smitten, which is a fact, and he told me so, which is nothing short of a miracle. So now we have to find out whether the Granger girl is the mate destined for him."

At a flick of Lucius' wand the brandy bottle came to hover above his glass and refill it. "Very well," he said, sending it back to the sideboard in the dining room. "We merely have to make sure she bears this mysterious mark. In order to do that, we have to find out what sort of mark she is supposed to bear, which means that we have to get our hands on the prophecy."

The last traces of daylight had vanished; the candles the House Elves had lit in the meantime attracted a suicidal moth – it went up in flames when Narcissa aimed her wand at it.

"Precisely," she said. "You know Severus better than I do – where do you think he'd keep it? At home? At Gringott's?"

"My guess would be that it is buried somewhere at Spinner's End. I don't think he could be bothered even to bundle his mother's things up and dispose of them, when she died."

"Well," said Narcissa after a short pause, "this is certainly an inconvenience. I'd rather break into Gringott's than force Severus' wards."

"Definitely an endeavour that just begs to be delegated, don't you think?" Lucius' expression underwent a rapid change from calculating to dreamy, and finally unholy amusement. "Believe it or not, I know just the man for the job."

vvvvvvvv


	3. Chapter 3

**Part, the third**

**In which there is plotting, most of it unsuccessful**

Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had happily stepped down one year after Voldemort's death and handed the mantle of Minister for Magic to Arthur Weasley, generally enjoyed being head of Magical Law Enforcement. These days, even the Auror Division didn't have to deal with anything darker than the occasional cursed Muggle artefact; Law Enforcement mainly sorted out domestic disputes and breaches of Apparition regulations. It wasn't exactly a cushy job – the increased amount of paperwork took care of that – but while it was still interesting, Kingsley didn't need to worry about stress or Death Eaters significantly shortening his life expectation. Nowadays, a full fry-up for breakfast and his newfound predilection for cigars were the only factors that could possibly lead to premature death, but there were potions for that kind of thing. Kingsley was justly hoping to live to the venerable age of at least one hundred and fifty.

Had been hoping, to be exact.

Severus Snape blasting his way through a well-warded, and now former, door into his office, so angry that he was practically frothing at the mouth and dragging Harry Potter behind him by one ear, made Kingsley re-evaluate his chances of dying a natural death. He briefly pondered whether a genial, "Severus! How nice to see you! How may I help you?" might improve the situation; knowing Snape, however, Kingsley decided that staying seated and assuming an expression of cautious disapproval was by far the better option. It was taking this sort of life-saving decision within a split second, after all, that determined whether you got a flattering inscription on your headstone or a simple "Beloved Father and Husband", which wasn't as fancy, but the age had three digits.

When Snape let finally go of Harry's ear, only to yank him forward by the arm and propel him halfway across Kingsley's desk, the Head of MLE realized that his star Auror wasn't quite as unharmed as he'd appeared at first glance. The Boy Who Lived looked frightened out of his skull, his pupils so dilated that his eyes seemed black, the cords in his neck bulging, his face the colour of curdled milk.

Kingsley opened his mouth, but Snape was faster. "How dare you!" he spat.

"What the hell did you do to Harry?" Kingsley shouted, heaving his massive body off his desk chair.

Harry uttered a strangled sound somewhere between a groan and a bark; the unnatural tension that had gripped his whole body was visibly wearing off. Both men observed closely as the young Auror shuddered, slumped and then slid slowly off the desk amidst a shower of parchments, quills and cockroach clusters. The silver bowl that had held the sweets followed the pull of gravity and landed on Harry's head upside down, making him look like a thoroughly defeated knight. The inkwell followed, ricocheted off the vessel with a metallic "clank" and came to rest on the carpet; a black stain was rapidly spreading, while the two wizards were still glaring at each other.

"He's not in any danger," Snape finally said. Heedless of Harry's prone body, he sat down heavily in the visitors' chair. "He'll wake up in about half an hour – time enough for you to explain why you sent the brat to my house which is, to all intents and purposes, unplottable. He Portkeyed right into my lounge, armed with a search warrant, and had the audacity-"

"Wait!" Shacklebolt raised a hand. "Stop right here. What do you mean I sent Harry to you with a search warrant? Have you taken leave of your senses?"

With a growl worthy of a hungry lion, Snape fished a sheet of parchment from an inner pocket of his robes. "Have a look, if you don't believe me."

The Head Auror's eyes widened as he perused the document. "It seems to be genuine," he said slowly, handing it back to Snape. "But I swear to you, Severus, that I haven't-"

"Then I'd advise you to find out who did it," Severus snapped. "You say you had nothing to do with this... this outrage, and I believe you, but let me warn you, Kingsley – if something like this ever happens again, I'll make sure that you're back to patrolling Apparition spots faster than you can say 'demotion'."

Kingsley swallowed the sharp retort he'd been on the point of delivering, and merely nodded. After a short pause he asked, "Did Harry, er, cause any damage? Take anything?"

Teeth bared in a sneer, Snape shook his head. "He got as far as the upper floor landing – I didn't even need to go after him. The wards are... most satisfactory."

"That's one way of putting it." Kingsley looked down at Harry's still-motionless body. "I hope they are not illegal?"

"Unusual, maybe," replied Snape. "But certainly not illegal – they work similarly to a Boggart. If the boy had more than one brain cell, he'd have cast _Ridikkulus_. As things are, Mr Potter was reliving some of his more unpleasant moments, I daresay, before I finally caught up with him. Much as it pains me to say so, I'm not as fast as I used to be."

"Age and peace have slowed us all down," Kingsley said diplomatically. "Now I think it's time for Harry to be sent to St. Mungo's – I'll owl you as soon as I find out who was behind this, uh, prank."

"See that you do." Snape gave a curt nod and stalked out the door in a still-impressive swirl of black robes.

vvvvvvvv

In the encroaching darkness flashes of lightning danced jerkily on the horizon; the faraway rumble of thunder was barely audible over the crackling of the fire the House Elves had lit in the library, where the Malfoy couple had retired after dinner. Lucius was sitting at his desk, a quill held loosely between his fingers. His eyes were not focused on the books and ledgers scattered all over the desktop, though. A faint crease between his eyebrows and the faraway expression on his face spoke of deep and unpleasant thoughts.

Narcissa, too, had abandoned her hold on the book she'd been reading. She was staring into the flames that warmed her daintily be-slippered feet, lips pursed in a petulant moue.

A House Elf tiptoed into the room to levitate another log onto the fire; it had already vanished as quietly as it had entered, when the added weight caused the glowing mound of wood to collapse into itself, sending up a bouquet of sparks.

Both Lucius and Narcissa flinched; finally their eyes met.

"It wasn't a bad plan, per se," said Narcissa slowly.

Lucius sniffed. "The quality of a plan, my dear, largely depends on its outcome. And that could have been worse only if Shacklebolt had been able to trace the fake warrant back to me, not to mention the hexes I put on it. Even so, we haven't come a single inch closer to that damned prophecy, and therefore the plan was a bad plan."

Uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, Narcissa slowly shook her head. "Well, if you factor in Potter having to spend twenty-four hours at St. Mungo's, heavily sedated, and Severus getting to shout at Shacklebolt, I would say it wasn't the worst possible outcome." She inserted a bookmark into her book and put it on the small side table next to her chair. "But I have to agree that we're still no closer to obtaining the prophecy. Maybe you or I could get Severus to-"

"Oh, try to be reasonable," Lucius cut her off. "This is Severus we're talking about – he may have become a little complacent, as we all have, but unless we are prepared to wait at least a year, there is no way we can ask him directly whether he's still got it, not after the fiasco with Potter. And even after a year, he might still put two and two together, no matter how casual we made the question sound," he added gruffly.

"That," Narcissa said, "was not at all what I meant. We have to get hold of that prophecy, Lucius – I am not prepared to let Severus carry on with a serious relationship unless the Granger girl is the one he's meant to be with. The poor boy has had more than his fair share of ill-fated love..."

"Excuse me?" Lucius' expression had gone from cross to incredulous. "To the best of my knowledge, the _poor boy_ has been fornicating with as good as every eligible English witch, not to mention the foreign ones, and you still see him as some sort of helpless, star-crossed victim of fate?"

"Poppycock. I was speaking of love, not affairs. And while he's certainly not helpless, it's time that he settled down with the right woman."

Lucius shrugged and muttered something unintelligible, conceding the point.

"Maybe," Narcissa continued, "your plan was a little too convoluted. Why don't we just lure him away from Spinner's End and go there ourselves to have a look? At least we'll know how to get through the wards on the upper floor – St. Mungo's really ought to be a little more careful with their files."

"Maybe." Now he was sounding decidedly grumpy.

Narcissa bit her lip to dissimulate a smile. "So we merely have to think of a way to get him out of his den for at least an hour."

"There's no 'merely' about that," Lucius huffed.

"Of course not, dear. But I'm sure you'll come up with something absolutely brilliant."

vvvvvvvv

"Seventy-six, seventy-seven – that's the lot, Buckles." Hermione Granger transferred her wand from her right hand to the left and gingerly rotated her right wrist. "Those wrap-with-a-bow charms may be practical, but they're murder on the wrists."

The House Elf gave her a toothy grin. "But they's pretty, Miss Hermione."

"Very pretty," she agreed. "Anyway, we're done for today. See that these get delivered in time, and we'll call it a day."

Still massaging her stiff fingers, Hermione walked over to her desk to strike the last order off the day's to-do list; putting together the assortment of cakes, confectionery and boiled sweets the Fiddleshaws had requested for their youngest daughter's wedding had taken up the better part of the day, and tomorrow she'd have to be at their (horrendously tasteless and nouveau-riche) mansion at the crack of dawn in order to oversee the setup and decoration of her part of the buffet.

"Buckles?" She held up a small roll of parchment. "When did this arrive?"

A frown added further lines to Buckles' already wrinkly forehead. "I isn't sure – maybe an hour ago? Buckles doesn't open it, because it's being addressed to Mistress Hermione personally," he added. The spindly fingers were visibly twitching with the reflexive need for self-punishment; a mere couple of years wasn't enough to remove the ingrained response.

"That's all right," said Hermione, trying to sound as soothing as possible. She picked up the scroll to examine it, and her eyes widened. "Well, this is a surprise." Following her beckoning finger, Buckles scuttled to join her on the other side of the desk and rose on tiptoes to decipher the writing on the missive.

"From the Bulstrodes," he whispered, awestruck.

Hermione shook her head. "I can't believe it. If this is actually an owl order and not a cursed letter" – she performed a few standard detection spells, and a few others that were by no means standard and would have got her a sharp reprimand from the Aurors, had they not been undetectable – "which it isn't, I believe that we have finally conquered the last bastion of pureblood resistance to Muggleborn-made sweets."

Buckles said nothing, and merely bounced up and down on his tiptoes, eyes bulging with suppressed excitement.

The letter was a short one; Hermione's look of concern mixed with panic caused the elf to stop bouncing and reach for the parchment she held out to him. He read it through, gulped and read it once again. Anxious green eyes met wild brown ones.

"The bastards," Hermione growled after a while. "The utter, utter stinking bastards – a cursed letter would have been far better." She sighed. "There's nothing for it. I'm going to show those arrogant, supremacist pigs what's what. Animagus cakes!" she spat, hair crackling ominously. "And in two weeks no less! Preparing the potion alone takes a week, plus we have to tweak the recipe..." She dragged a hand through her short curls and flinched when they gave off sparks. "Damn – we're going to need Severus, and we'll have to do the experiments here! There's no way he'll allow me to contaminate his lab with my ingredients."

vvvvvvvv

While Hermione Granger's use of ever-so-slightly illegal detection spells might have baffled many a wizard who believed her to be a good little rule-abiding Gryffindor, no-one would have even raised an eyebrow in surprise at Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy knowing (and using) a broad repertoire of spells that didn't just flirt with misconduct but were holding veritable orgies with it. Not all of them were malignant in nature, though, and both Malfoy spouses knew better than to provoke fate by using one of those, unless strictly necessary of course. The much-improved Disillusionment Spell they had put on each other, in order to spy on Hermione while she was reading the Bulstrodes' letter, was a) strictly necessary, and b) just borderline illegal, because it had never been officially approved.

Since the couple had every intention of avoiding another fiasco, though, they had decided to leave nothing to coincidence. Visible only to each other, they indulged in a high-five when Severus Snape stepped out of Hermione's fireplace.

vvvvvvvv

Buckles busied himself with the entirely unnecessary task of adding a decorative border to the day's – already finished – to-do list, while wizard and witch exchanged thorough kisses at the other side of the room.

"So," Severus said once they had to come up for air, "what's all this about mixing Animagus Potion with lemon icing? If you wanted me to come over you could just have said so – I thought we were well beyond the stage of manufacturing transparent pretexts."

Instead of answering his question, Hermione dragged Severus across the room to her desk, where she prised the Bulstrodes' letter from under Buckles' right buttock. The elf, who had already been looking like an Aurora Borealis, with the hue of embarrassment casting a pink tinge over its greenish skin, promptly went even redder. The resemblance to a half-ripe tomato was quite striking.

"As far as I can see, this is genuine," Severus muttered, turning the parchment this way and that. "But I suppose you already talked to them, to confirm that it's the real thing?"

"I did talk to them," said Hermione darkly. "I confirmed receipt of the order – asking if they'd really sent me this letter would've looked a bit silly, don't you think?"

"Mmh. Possibly." He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "But since you confirmed, we'll have to go through with it."

Hermione's pleasure at his use of "we" was expressed immediately and with such enthusiasm that Buckles started adding another decorative border. "Are you sure?" she asked. "I mean, this is going to take at least two or three days, with all the cross-referencing, and besides I'm afraid that we'll have trouble finding any references at all to possible reactions between Fluxweed and lemon, and-"

Buckles sighed and picked up a different set of coloured pencils.

vvvvvvvv

"Now that went well," Lucius observed, shedding his travelling cloak and helping his wife with hers. "Now all we have to do is make sure that the Bulstrodes invite us – much as it pains me to attend a birthday party for their inbred, almost-squib of a grandson, I have to confess I am eager to see what animals they'll actually be turning into."

He tucked Narcissa's hand under his arm and led her to the dining room. "Since I am footing the gargantuan bill for the cakes, I daresay even the Bulstrodes have sufficient manners to put us on the guest list. Meanwhile, and in anticipation of a successfully accomplished mission, I told the elves to prepare a feast, my dear."

Narcissa somehow managed to glance simultaneously up at her husband's face and down her nose. "Accomplished?" she echoed.

"Well... yes. We have the prophecy" – Lucius patted his breast pocket, making the parchment rustle slightly – "and Severus is none the wiser. The Granger girl will be at the party, which provides the ideal opportunity for accosting her. The main deed is done, and the rest is up to our considerable social skills."

"We haven't even read the prophecy yet, my darling, and may I remind you that ascertaining whether Granger bears that oh-so-mysterious mark may prove far more difficult than just making conversation."

"How difficult can it possibly be?" Lucius scoffed.

"That," Narcissa retorted, "depends very much on its location."

vvvvvvvv

Two hours later, the blond couple were exchanging glances of desperation – all the words of desperation they could think of had already been uttered, some of them a few dozen times – and rapidly approaching a state of drunken disarray.

Despite Lucius' valiant attempts, the champagne bottle hovering above Narcissa's glass refused to remain steady; she was trying to follow its jerky movements with the rim of her flute. She squeaked when a few drops fell on her wrist and ran into her sleeve. Lucius snickered. Having been raised to the highest standards of gentlewizardly behaviour, however, he proceeded immediately to lick the beverage off his wife's skin. "So," he slurred, "how do we go about... about viewing Granger's arse?"

"We?" Narcissa gave an annoyed sniff and withdrew her hand. "_We_ are _not_ going to view Granger's arse. _I_ am going to view Granger's arse."

"But..."

"Ye-es?"

Under her gimlet-eyed glare, Lucius resolved not to put forth the argument he'd been preparing. It had seemed fairly convincing while his alcohol-addled mind had pieced it together, but in the cold light of his wife's imminent ire it quickly lost its appeal. "Nothing, dear," he said tamely. "I just thought... but never mind. How about another bottle? To lubricate the plotting. Facilitate, I mean."

vvvvvvvv


	4. Chapter 4

**Part, the fourth**

**In which there is a birthday party, more plotting (unsuccessful), and lingerie**

Compared to the Malfoys, the Bulstrodes were very much _nouveau riche_. They were, in fact, considerably more _riche_ than the Malfoys; however, given their _nouveau_-ness, they showed considerably less taste in displaying their wealth. In the mid-1800's Beomer Bulstrode, the now-deceased great-grandfather of the child Lucius had so callously called an inbred almost-squib, had purchased the building adjacent to Gringotts on Diagon Alley; over the decades following this transaction he'd added detail upon ostentatious detail to every square inch of the facade, until the structure had reached its final, gaudily-nightmarish appearance that still made passing toddlers scream and seek refuge in the folds of their mothers' cloaks.

The one redeeming feature of the Bulstrodes' town house was its garden, which was both ample and mercifully devoid of artefacts. On the night of the birthday fête for the seven-year-old, not-overly-burdened-by-magical-talent Bulstrode scion, two weeks after Lucius and Narcissa had succeeded in stealing the Prophecy, a battalion of House Elves was busy putting up tables, chairs and decorations, casting permanent Floating Charms on candles and following a cacophony of frenzied commands from various caterers. Hermione, the first to arrive, had already finished the intricate arrangement of flowers and lovingly decorated cupcakes; after issuing a peremptory order for the elves to stay well away from the table, she continued on her own, casting wards and protective enchantments. The Animagus Cakes she'd developed with Severus' aid were to be the crowning glory of the party, and nobody would be allowed to touch them or even come near them before the hostess gave the signal.

"You have truly outdone yourself, my dear."

Hermione jumped and turned. "Mrs Malfoy... Just give me a second, please." A few flicks and swishes of her wand later, she nodded and blew an errant curl off her forehead. "Sorry, but I had to finish..."

"Think nothing of it," Narcissa interrupted her, smiling and holding out her hand. "I believe I already told you to call me Narcissa – remember, the day we had tea at Spinner's End?"

"I, er... uh, yes. Yes. Of course. I apologize."

There was a brief, uncomfortable pause before Narcissa asked, "These lovely cupcakes – are they one of your specialties?"

"Not really, no. Actually it's the first time I made them. I've never had so much trouble with anything – in hindsight, I wish I had refused the order."

Since Severus had been complaining non-stop over the last ten days – at first because the potion recipe had proved more difficult to adapt than even he had anticipated, and later because Hermione was so busy that she couldn't make time for him – Narcissa knew more about the cakes than she'd ever wanted to. Still, a mission was a mission, and so she took Hermione's arm. "You must be exhausted, poor child. Let's have a glass of wine in some secluded spot, and you must tell me all about it."

"Oh, that's... But Severus – I should be meeting him."

"Never mind that now. Lucius will know where to find us." When Hermione still looked doubtful, Narcissa leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "I would also like to discuss a somewhat... delicate issue."

While Hermione didn't exactly relish the thought of discussing any issues with Narcissa Malfoy, never mind delicate ones, she was almost obsessively curious. And since she wasn't a cat, she assumed that giving in to the impulse wouldn't do much harm. The bet on the exact size of Lucius Malfoy's tackle she and the other girls had made during her school days was still valid – maybe this was her opportunity to win the betting pool. Mentally making sure that she still remembered where she'd hidden the list of participants' names and their (mostly outrageous) guesses and calculating the interest that would have accumulated in eight years, she followed Narcissa into the house.

The secluded spot Narcissa had mentioned turned out to be less peaceful than it might have been, had old Beomer (R.I.P.) not had all four walls covered in floor-to-ceiling frescoes. Or maybe not pastoral scenes with an abundance of lambs, improbably dressed shepherdesses, and shepherds, attired in equally outlandish fashion, serenading them. Or perhaps the frescoes wouldn't have been so bad, if they weren't moving. Or talking. As it was, the room was echoing with bleats, different songs and accompaniment by various instruments, and the cooing and sighing of shepherdesses.

Narcissa waved the wine glasses that were floating in their wake to a side table; she stood still for a moment, turning around herself, then drew her wand. A sudden silence ensued. The shepherds and objects of their affection all turned towards Narcissa, looking apprehensive. The lambs scampered off to seek cover under the nearest bushes – it became so quiet that the trilling of a lone nightingale (it had its tail turned towards the room) suddenly seemed incongruously loud. A laser-thin beam of greenish light issued from Narcissa's wand, and the bird was gone. In its place was a dark-grey smear, and a smell of burned feathers was wafting through the chamber.

When Narcissa smiled thinly, Hermione could have sworn that she'd grown fangs.

"I believe," said Narcissa, sitting down on a sofa and gesturing for Hermione to join her, "that we will be able to conduct our conversation in silence." Shepherds and shepherdesses gave panicky nods; one of the lads dropped his lute – Narcissa raised an eyebrow at the tinny, discordant noise and slowly raised her wand. The boy didn't even bother to pick up his instrument before he ran to hide behind a large rock.

"So it would seem," Hermione agreed. She couldn't deny that she was both impressed and slightly terrified by the display of ruthlessness – where she would have tried to persuade and cajole, Narcissa had taken the shortcut. This, Hermione mused while pensively sipping at her glass of elf-made Chardonnay, was why dividing Hogwarts students by houses and brainwashing them into believing they were oh-so-different was complete nonsense: Narcissa had just demonstrated that an arch-Slytherin was sometimes as willing to take the direct route as a Gryffindor would be to achieve their aim in a more roundabout way.

"Are you even listening?" Narcissa inquired mildly.

"I, erm..." Hermione took another fortifying sip. "I'm afraid I was elsewhere with my thoughts."

Narcissa winked at her. "Severus?"

"N-no. Nothing important, really. What was it you meant to talk to me about?"

"Severus, as it happens. Remind me – how long have the two of you been together?"

Trying to suppress her rising irritation, Hermione coolly regarded the blond witch. "Narcissa, I'm not quite sure how to put this – talks that start like this are seldom auspicious, are they? Or pleasant, for that matter. Besides, I don't really want to discuss our relationship with... anybody."

"Oh, but I'm not trying to meddle." Narcissa gave her a look that in any other person Hermione would have labelled 'candid'. She did have her doubts, though, as to whether the category was even applicable here. "Or rather," Narcissa continued with a demure smile, "I _am_ probably trying to meddle, but with the best of intentions."

"Famous last words," Hermione muttered under her breath. "All right then, just say whatever it is you want to say, and we'll take it from there."

"You are of course aware," Narcissa began, "that Severus has, shall we say, caught up on the lack of... social interaction he was subjected to during his tenure at Hogwarts?"

"You mean that he's been shagging anything that moved? Yes, I'm aware of that."

"Well, that's a relief. But do you know why there has never been any lasting relationship?"

Damn. That was a sore spot, and Narcissa probably knew it. "I... tried to talk about it a few times with Severus, but he was, well-"

"His usual, open and communicative self, I suppose." Narcissa smirked.

"Something like that, yes."

"Mmh. Just as I thought – fortunately he has been a little more forthcoming with me and Lucius."

"Oh?" Despite herself, Hermione leaned forward, eager to hear more.

"We have been friends for many years, so it's hardly surprising that he would confide in us. But that's neither here nor there. To put it bluntly, the key to Severus' heart is challenge."

Feeling as if the overstuffed monstrosity they were sitting on had suddenly been pulled away from under her, Hermione shook her head, stunned. "I don't think," she said slowly, "that anyone can accuse me of lacking self-esteem, but you are doing a rather thorough job undermining it."

"That was hardly my intention. Besides, I have no doubt that you are challenging Severus on many levels. What I am not so sure about is whether you appreciate the importance of versatility."

"Versa... Are you saying he ought to date a Metamorphmagus rather than me?"

"No. Absolutely not. What I am trying to make clear to you, my dear Hermione, is that most women, especially the clever ones, are more multifaceted than they appear. Many of them, and I'm afraid you're one of them, do not show their partners all those different aspects of their personality."

Completely taken aback, Hermione held her wine glass out to the House Elf that had entered the room with a fresh bottle. A drop of condensed water meandered slowly down the dark-green glass, but much as she wanted it to, the dark line it drew through the misted-over surface stubbornly remained a line and refused to spell out, "Narcissa Malfoy has gone bonkers – don't even listen to her."

"If I understand you correctly," Hermione said when the House Elf had left, "we're back to the old cliché of half-saint-half-whore?"

"There's a grain of truth in every cliché," retorted Narcissa. "Otherwise it would not have become a cliché. But of course it oversimplifies things, as every cliché does, I quite agree."

"So what _are_ you trying to tell me?"

Narcissa gave an impatient shrug. "Merely that you ought to express, or externalize, _everything_ that you are. Show him all the sides of your personality, not just the successful businesswoman who loves to read and exercise in her spare time."

"And that's what you do, too, in order to keep Lucius from straying?" Hermione bit out.

"Of course it is, but we are not talking about me."

Frustrated, Hermione threw up her hands. "All _right_! All right, do it! Tell me that I'm a dowdy, down-to-earth, goody-two-shoes who-"

Narcissa held up a hand to silence her; acknowledging, if grudgingly, that it was probably better to comply unless she meant for things to end in a cat fight, Hermione closed her mouth and gritted her teeth.

"These are very pretty robes indeed," Narcissa observed after a short pause.

"Erm, yes, why-"

"Would you mind telling me what you are wearing underneath?"

Hermione swallowed convulsively. "Is this some sort of creepy pureblood test?"

"It's a question, which you are free to answer or not, my dear."

Merlin, the sheer arrogant _condescension_ of the woman! "Underwear," Hermione replied in clipped tones.

"Interesting choice. What kind of underwear?"

Hermione drew her wand, registering Narcissa's slight flinch with grim amusement, and pointed it at the door which crashed shut – since hexing the other witch wasn't really an option, she had to let off steam somehow. A muttered spell made her robes fall open. "Happy now?" she asked, aware that she sounded horribly like a petulant teenager.

"Not very, to be honest. Robes as elegant and sophisticated as these demand that you wear lingerie under them, not... _underwear_."

"Lingerie." She reclosed the hooks and buttons with another flick of her wand and sat back down. "_That's_ your big secret? _Lingerie_?"

"It is certainly one of them. And, just to make that clear, I'd be more than willing to help – there are establishments which, shall we say, still cling to certain, old-fashioned beliefs..."

"You mean they don't cater to Mudbloods."

Narcissa winced. "That's a rather crude way of putting it, but essentially correct."

"So basically you are offering to go lingerie-shopping with me, and generally give me the benefit of your vast experience with womanly wiles."

Fluttering her eyelashes, Narcissa smiled at her. "In a nutshell, yes."

"One question: why?"

"Because," said Narcissa, tickling the chin of the chubby baroque Cupid that formed the base of the fruit bowl on the table, "I do care for Severus, and I believe that the two of you are very good for each other. On the other hand, I've known Severus for a fairly long time – if you mean to keep him, the only way to accomplish that is to attract him in as many ways as possible. Tightening your hold isn't an option when it comes to Severus-"

"Oh, do give me _some_ credit! As if I didn't know that!"

"-and relying on his willingness, not to mention his ability, to discover all the attractions on offer all by himself won't work either," Narcissa continued unperturbed. "I'm sure you have already understood that he equals not being constantly wooed to being indifferent."

"I may have had an inkling," Hermione admitted, trying to sound dignified.

"So?"

"Oh, very well. Let's go shopping then. But I warn you: under no circumstances am I going to wear a thong."

"How very, very inconvenient," Narcissa muttered, a rare frown marring her smooth forehead.

"Uh, why?"

"Nothing, my dear. It's nothing. I do, after all, have a Plan B." She patted Hermione's hand and added, "There are so many different kinds of lingerie, aren't there?"

vvvvvvvv

"I swear," Hermione said to Severus, "that the next spoiled brat who treads on my feet or bothers me in any other way will wish he'd never been born. Or she."

"A commendable attitude." He threaded his fingers through hers and gave a gentle squeeze. "To think that this assortment of mouth-breathers will be starting at Hogwarts in a few years... Not that I blame the parents for sending them away, but I do feel a twinge of pity for the staff."

They stepped back against a tree trunk when a group of screaming children tore past them.

Hermione shook her head. "Just look at them! Maybe I'm getting old, but I really don't think we were ever that bad."

"That strongly depends on your definition of 'we'."

"My year," she said, making a sweeping gesture with her wine glass. "Oh, sorry, Severus, I didn't mean to – oh well, you're lucky, it's just white wine."

"Your year", Severus replied waspishly while using his wand to siphon the droplets of wine from his dress robes, "comprised Potter and Weasley, my dear. A self-explanatory comment, if ever I made one."

Hermione chuckled. "Don't forget Neville."

"How could I possibly forget – oh, look!"

The guests were gravitating towards the table with the cakes, and Severus pulled her along in their wake. "This should be most amusing," he whispered. "My bet is on Wulfric changing into a warthog."

"Mmh..." Cocking her head, Hermione considered the birthday boy's grandfather. "I'm going with gorilla."

"Much too clever."

"Warthogs aren't stupid, either. What about his lovely missus? I'd say alligator."

"Is amoeba even a possibility?"

They both snickered.

"Very well, I'll say cockroach," Severus conceded.

They ambled towards the throng of guests that was growing denser by the second, those in the back craning and pushing to see what was going on at the front. There was excited murmuring and whispering; gravel crunched under dozens of shoes, and children's voices rose shrill and jarring. Wulfric Bulstrode could briefly be glimpsed through an opening in the wall of shoulders and backs: he was speaking, but the noise made by two hundred guests drowned out his voice.

When his grandson stepped up to the cake table, which was standing on an elevated dais, the crowd stilled.

Eyes wide and cheeks flushed with anticipation, young Berwick Bulstrode grabbed an Animagus Cake.

vvvvvvvv

The Bulstrodes may not be the brightest or magically powerful of wizards, but at least they'd had the foresight to give precise instructions to their House Elves: young Berwick had barely transformed into a more than usually snub-snouted piglet, when an elf grabbed him and transferred its charge to a makeshift paddock towards the rear wall of the garden, unheeding of its piercing squeals. Due to the altered recipe, the effect of the potion was calculated to wear off after only five minutes, but even so it was preferable to avoid guests devouring one another or inter-species fights breaking out.

Severus gave Hermione a smug smile, when Wulfric turned into a warthog, just as he had predicted, and steered her over to a small copse of palm trees where Lucius was sharing a stone bench with Narcissa.

"Most impressive, Miss Granger," Lucius murmured, standing and bowing over Hermione's hand. "My compliments. I hope you will be joining us?" He gestured at the bench facing theirs and, when they both nodded, drew his wand to move it next to the one he was occupying with Narcissa. "Do sit down, please – now we may watch the spectacle together."

He conjured a cushion for Hermione and waited until she had lowered herself onto it before reclaiming his place next to Narcissa.

Hermione snuggled closer to Severus and let her eyes wander between the transformations at the buffet table and the blond couple. Her thoughts, too, began to wander, and she realized, much to her surprise, that the prospect of having more frequent contact with the Malfoys didn't seem as abhorrent anymore as it had a few months ago. They would never be what one might call an ordinary couple – their angelic good looks alone set them too much apart; maybe she'd never feel completely at her ease in their company, but it was possible to have an intelligent conversation with them, although Lucius wasn't quite the brightest candle on the chandelier. They also had good manners when they chose to use them. Since they had evidently abandoned their prejudice against Muggleborn witches at least as far as she was concerned, Hermione was willing to give them another chance, if mostly for Severus' sake.

"Maybe we could make things even more interesting by having a little wager on the outcome of certain guests' transformations?"

Hermione let reluctantly go of her train of thought and stared at Narcissa. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's probably exceeded her shoe allowance, again," Severus stage-whispered into her ear.

Lucius snorted. "The shoe allowance is a mere figment we have abandoned long ago for the sake of conjugal harmony. Besides, the wager doesn't have to be for money."

"Not for..." Hermione fell silent when Severus squeezed her shoulder.

"Lucius," he said, "I don't know how much you've had to drink, but it must have been a lot, if you're reverting to your schoolboy persona. We spent three years at Hogwarts together, in case you've forgotten, and I remember very well what sort of wagers you used to have, at least with those few imbeciles who still thought they stood a chance against you."

Hermione, who'd whiled away many an hour with her fellow Gryffindors guessing what exactly went on in the Slytherin common room – the information Harry and Ron had garnered during their second year had fuelled the discussions – felt that she was finally about to get some insight. Never mind that Lucius and Severus had been at Hogwarts twenty years before her; Slytherins were Slytherins, just as Gryffindors were Gryffindors, and their antics likely hadn't changed a lot over two decades.

She glanced questioningly first at Severus, then at Lucius. Severus made an inviting gesture towards his blond friend who didn't even make an attempt at playing coy. "Except for playing Truth or Dare, there really was no better way of getting girls naked, or as good as. To have a look at the goods," he added with a dreamy smile, "before actually..." He fell silent abruptly and shot Narcissa a wounded look. "Elbowing your husband is _so_ hoi polloi, my dear."

"I knew the Slytherins were doing all kinds of depraved things," Hermione said wistfully. "I just _knew_ it, but Harry and Ron always kept saying no."

"Probably because they didn't know what depraved means," said Severus. "To return to our previous discussion, though, I refuse to have that kind of wager. No one sees my girlfriend naked, except for myself, and that's final."

"I can speak for myself, thank you very much," Hermione said primly, but it was hard to miss the undertone of satisfaction. "Don't look so disappointed, Lucius – you don't mind, do you, if I call you Lucius."

"I suppose I don't. What about a game of Truth or Dare then?"

"Excellent idea," Narcissa put in. "We are going to see more of one another, I daresay, so why not get to know one another better?"

"Precisely." Lucius smiled in a way that made Hermione think of the wolf telling the lamb that it should only look whether there was anything stuck between his teeth, because he was going on a date, honestly. "So..." Eyes slightly narrowed, he glanced over towards the buffet table. "Roderick Parkinson is next in line. I say armadillo."

Severus snorted. "Don't be silly. Rhinoceros."

"Honestly." Hermione shook her head – she had a feeling as if there was a lot going on under the surface which she didn't understand but could only guess at; there was no sense of danger, however, and so decided she should just play along. The Lucius-Malfoy-Cock-Length betting pool had never been at closer reach, after all. "I say toad."

"Really?" Narcissa said. "My guess is vulture."

Roderick Parkinson stomped forward; massive and bull-like, he seemed to be shouldering the air aside. The cupcake looked ridiculously small in his beefy hands. Nobody seemed surprised when he swallowed it whole.

"Now that's unexpected," said Narcissa, when a House Elf went after the magnificent tropical butterfly with a net. "Who would have thought that old Roderick would turn into something so... poetic? Though I have to say, he does look quite poisonous. It seems I won this round."

Hermione bristled. "Excuse me? How is a vulture closer to a butterfly than a toad?"

"It flies, I think that should be obvious."

"And it also lays eggs, as does a toad."

"So does the vulture, which means I've got two characteristics right, and you only one. Truth or dare?"

"So much for depravity," Severus murmured in Hermione's ear.

She laughed. "All right then, truth."

vvvvvvvv


	5. Chapter 5

**Part, the fifth:**

**In which there is consumption of whisky, and the rose makes an appearance, in a manner of speaking**

"I somehow find myself unable, not to mention unwilling, to believe that we had a plan A, B and C, and none of them worked." Lucius threw himself into his favourite armchair and looked at his wife, who was sitting opposite him and massaging her feet.

"It hardly seems probable," she agreed. "But I am ready to take my share of the blame – I ought to have asked her right at the first opportunity."

"There, there," Lucius said soothingly. "How could we have known, either of us, that the girl was going to lose only one round?"

"We're Slytherins, and therefore supposedly master plotters. We ought to have considered the possibility."

"Hm. There's that." Lucius sighed. "So all we have achieved so far is" – he counted the evening's rather disappointing results down on his fingers – "that, firstly, Hermione Granger has won the Hogwarts betting pool on the size of my, er, equipment, and I would thank you not to comment on that; secondly, that she is now privy to any number of little secrets we'd both have preferred to stay undisclosed..."

Narcissa stretched and yawned. "I am so pleased to see that your self-assurance has remained undiminished."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You didn't subsume the size of your equipment under 'little secrets'."

"I would hardly call six inches a _little _secret, my dear." Frowning, he turned to look at the window. "Who in Circe's name is sending us an owl at this late hour?"

vvvvvvvv

While busying herself with the tea things, bottles and glasses, Hermione threw the occasional glance over her shoulder at the Malfoy couple. Having them sit on her couch was a bit like having two ocean liners moored in your swimming pool, and she'd been somewhat reluctant to invite them back to her place at two a.m., for tea, whisky and sweets to boot. Severus, however, had succeeded in convincing her that it was a good idea. Not only, or so he had pointed out, was it never advisable to allow Lucius to brood over a perceived slight, even if it existed only in his mind; there had also been a strange and inexplicable aura of disappointment about the two spouses, and a disappointed Malfoy was a Malfoy plotting to get what he or she wanted, by whichever means necessary. It was therefore better, Severus had explained, to lure them here and pamper them before they sobered up and started scheming.

Since all four of them had successfully evaded the consumption of cupcakes at the party, the offer of experiencing their effect in private, amongst friends, ought to be a sufficiently believable bait.

Believable or not, they had showed up, Hermione mused, and both still seemed fairly intoxicated. Lucius was glancing around her lounge with the air of someone who had expected her to live in a replica of the garbage dumps of Calcutta and found himself pleasantly surprised; he also seemed to be working on a pretext to switch on the telly, which obviously intrigued him to no end.

Narcissa had taken off her shoes and was massaging her feet, after a failed attempt to get Lucius to do it.

Severus was leaning against the mantelpiece and surveying the scene with a sardonic smile playing around his lips.

When Buckles' spidery fingers directed a succession of plates, platters, bowls and baskets towards the magically enlarged coffee table, Hermione felt that she'd actually managed to impress the Malfoy couple. She suppressed a giggle and drew her wand to float the beverages over to the sitting area. Evidently the fine art of patisserie had achieved what her magical prowess could not: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were finally acknowledging her skills.

"So," she said brightly, gesturing to Severus to join her on the smaller couch, "what do you think? Should we start with the cupcakes, or better leave them for later, as _pièce de résistance_?"

Lucius shifted in his seat and exchanged a look with his wife. "Well... maybe you would care to explain, while we partake of these delicious treats, how the potion works? Not in painstaking detail," he hastened to add, eliciting a snort from Severus, "more along the lines of what exactly determines which animal one transforms into."

"The floor is yours, Severus," Hermione said. "I'll just confine myself to my traditional role and be nurturing. Oh, and the fire is burning low, too, so I'll do my Vestal act as well." She Levitated a few logs onto the grate and began serving everybody tea, whisky and sweets.

"Are you saying," Lucius interrupted his friend's monologue after a few minutes, "that it's completely random? The potion doesn't act along any characteristics, affinities, or even wishes of the drinker?"

Severus selected a miniature Danish and picked up his fork. "Blame the lemon icing," he said. "The original potion _does_ work very similarly to the Animagus transformation, but since any kind of sugar wreaks havoc with the Fluxweed and Lacewings, we had to replace them with similar ingredients. They do their part in the transformation, but lack the hallucinogenic component – hence the drinker's subconscious doesn't influence the result."

"That makes sense," said Narcissa.

"Praise indeed," was Severus' dry answer. "Still, on some level there has to be some sort of interaction with the drinker – how else would you explain that the Bulstrode brat turned into a piglet? Or his grandfather into a warthog? The snout looked exactly like his nose. Hermione, dear, are you quite all right?"

"What?" Hermione opened and closed her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine, I just..." She picked up her whisky, drained it in one gulp and spluttered. "Damn, I thought that was the tea..."

"Believe it or not," Lucius remarked, "the very same happened to me last..." He fell silent when Hermione put a finger to her lips; probably more due to his shock at the utter audacity of such a gesture than to his willingness to obey it.

Completely unaware of Severus and Narcissa's unholy amusement at Lucius's look of stunned disbelief, Hermione said, "Did it occur to you that all the children, at least those whom I observed, transformed into animals that either resembled them or shared certain characteristics? You" – her eyes focused on Narcissa – "were the one who called Penny Whatshername a thieving little slag, and she turned into a magpie!"

"That's… true." Severus put his plate back on the table and rubbed his forehead. "And if there's something to it-"

"If," Hermione said slowly, "there is something to it, we might have accidentally stumbled upon a way to make my potion, which must contain Doxy wings and therefore can't be mixed with either Fluxweed or Lacewings, interact with the drinker's subconscious. It could be the breakthrough I've been waiting for, Severus!"

"It could, but so far it's nothing but a hunch – we'd have to collect way more data before we could even begin to form a coherent hypothesis, let alone-"

"But we do have the data," Hermione interrupted him excitedly. "They're right here, in our heads – Lucius, do you have a Pensieve?"

"Of course," Lucius said. He was looking even more out of his depth – not only was he surrounded by mysterious Muggle machines and forced to listen to a potions-related discussion that was as boring as it was unintelligible, but Hermione Granger had had the nerve to silence him, and now she was inferring that he might not possess a Pensieve.

"Well, would you be a dear and go fetch it?"

Bewildered, he could only nod. He was already rising from the couch when Narcissa, shooting Hermione an amused glance, put a hand on his forearm. "Lucius, dear, you could also summon one of our elves." Before Hermione Granger turns you into one, was the unspoken subtext.

Ten minutes later, they were all busy extracting memories and putting them into the bowl. It was full almost to the brim when they'd finished, and Hermione seemed a little doubtful. "These are all jumbled-up," she said. "It's going to take an awful lot of time to sort through all of it."

"Not" – Lucius drew his wand with a flourish – "if you know the right spell to put them into whichever order you prefer."

Now he was sounding much more like the old Lucius, self-assured and a little arrogant, but Hermione couldn't work up much resentment – not only had she more or less forced him to reveal the length of his cock, she'd also been treating him pretty much as she did Harry or Ron, and he was probably not used to that. So she merely made an inviting gesture and watched attentively while he cast a complex spell that involved intricate wand movements.

"All done," he finally said. "Now" – he summoned the whisky bottle and poured himself a generous top-up – "why don't we sample these delicious-looking Animagus Cupcakes, so we can add another set of memories to the lot?"

He reached out towards the filigree silver basket that held the remaining cakes, but Narcissa put a hand over his. "If we just eat them and transform, the experience, while interesting, will not be a significant contribution to what Hermione is trying to do."

"How so?" asked Severus, perking up.

"Well, think about it. If Hermione's hypothesis is valid, the factor that makes all the difference is probably the magical power of the person who ingests the potion or, in this case, the cake. Surely it hasn't escaped you that Lucinda Blimpton, who is a good as a Squib, turned into a llama? She may claim to be forty-one, but I happen to know that she's fifty-nine. In any case, she's not a child, and therefore age is evidently not the determining factor. I'd venture a guess that, the less powerful the wizard, the more, let us say, accurate the transformation. I would therefore suggest that two of us temporarily diminish their magical power. Lucius" – she cocked her head towards her husband, who seemed to have developed a close relationship with the whisky bottle – "is already well on his way, it seems. I'll have to get him home somehow, so I am out. Hermione, would you do the honours?"

"I really don't think," Hermione began, but Severus interrupted her.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow, and all the parchments and samples are at Spinner's End. So I need to Apparate back, and I can't afford to be hung-over in the morning."

Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes. "As if I didn't have a life, or work to do. But all right – tomorrow's list of orders isn't overly long, so I can start a bit later..." She motioned for Narcissa to swap seats with her, plopped down next to Lucius and wrenched the bottle from his grip. "Give me that!"

"You're not going to..." Lucius surreptitiously pinched his thigh, merely to make sure that he wasn't dreaming – no, Hermione Granger was really quaffing whisky directly from the bottle. Good whisky. He suddenly felt a little weak. Not too feeble, though, to snatch the bottle back and gulp down about half a pint. "Here," he said, handing it back to her, "that should be enough to dim... to dimin... well, you know what."

Giggling, Hermione sucked the meagre remainders from the bottle. She had to fumble almost a minute for her wand before she managed to extract it from her sleeve. "Let'sh shee then. Winga... oops, _Wingardium Leviosha_." Severus' teacup, which she'd attempted to Levitate, wobbled slightly but remained on the table. "Okay, ready to try the cakesh. Cake."

vvvvvvvv

"She always gets the hiccups when she's laughing too hard," Severus explained to Narcissa. "Oh shut up, will you?" he hissed at the white peacock that was screeching and clucking, struggling to remain on its feet on the couch and had thus brought about a fit of near-hysterical laughter in Hermione. "And don't crap on the – oh, _fuck_!"

The Lucius-peacock screeched again and craned its neck in an attempt to get past Severus' arm and peck Hermione's knee.

"Narcissa, _do_ something! Can't you see I'm busy here?"

The peacock fanned out its tail.

"Oh _no_! That was Hermione's favourite teapot! Don't just stand there, Narcissa! Cast _Petrificus_, or I swear I'm going to..."

Instead of Petrifying her husband, Narcissa conjured a magical sphere that contained him, not unlike the one Voldemort had used for his pet snake.

Severus rolled his eyes. "Oh, thank you for a déjà-vu of the worst moment of my life. But at least" – he paused in his ministrations to Hermione and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear – "it muffles those abominable screeches. _Finite Singultus_! There you are, my dear. Better now?"

Slightly cross-eyed, Hermione grinned up at him. "It washn't sho bad, but thanksh." She reached out to pull him down for a horribly misaimed kiss. "Wash that your eye?"

"Yes." He wiped his left eye and blinked a few times. "Yes, it was. You almost sucked out my eyeball! Of course you'd find that funny, too. And there we go again." He recast the spell and, deftly dodging another attempt to catch him, octopus-fashion, held out a cupcake. "Work first, snogging later. Come on, eat it! Narcissa, stop fiddling with the remote control and come watch – we'll need the memory."

"Her bossiness is definitely rubbing off on you," Narcissa remarked. "Oh, by the way, did you notice" – she rotated the sphere, causing the peacock to utter another indignant screech – "that his left wing bears the Dark Mark?"

Shaking his head, Severus approached the glaring Lucius-peacock. "There it is indeed," he breathed. "It's blurry, just like mine, but definitely there. Hermione, have a look – no, we'll just show her the memory later, once she's had her Sobering Potion. Eat your cake, darling, come on."

Arms crossed, Hermione stared up at him, radiating stubbornness. "I don't want to. I'm feeling sick. I may have to throw up."

"Come now, darling, it's just a cup- Oh, bugger."

"Before you even ask," Narcissa said primly, "No, I'm not going to help you clean this up. Buckles!"

vvvvvvvv

While the elf restored the lounge to its customary state of cleanliness and Severus cast a swarm of _Reparo_ spells to reassemble the dishes Lucius had broken when he displayed his (admittedly magnificent) tail, Narcissa bedded her husband, who had retransformed but was now out cold, down on the floor. Hermione was snoring on the couch, covered with a blanket.

"I think," Severus said, "that a cup of coffee wouldn't go amiss. Buckles, would you be so kind?"

He Levitated another log onto the grate and positioned two armchairs in front of the fireplace. "Well, that was... educational," he said, once they'd both sat down and were cradling mugs of coffee. "I only wish..."

"Hm?" Narcissa peered at him over the rim of her mug. "What, Severus?"

"Oh, nothing. Since the peacock had the Mark, I was wondering whether..."

Her tiredness forgotten, Narcissa sat up straight. "What? What were you wondering about?"

"Mmh... Well I guess Hermione won't mind if I tell you – it's nothing to be embarrassed about, after all. She has this... birthmark on her – well never mind where, and I was wondering whether her animal form was going to have it, too."

Luckily for Narcissa, the ex-spy was very tired, or else her attempt at faking nonchalance might have failed. "So it's in an... intimate place, I gather," she asked lightly.

"Quite, yes. On her right buttock, very close to the erm..."

"Longitudinal abyss? Interglobular interstice? Bum Crack?" Narcissa supplied.

"Er, yes. And it's shaped like a rose. A bit lopsided, but definitely a rose. Are you quite well, Narcissa? You look a bit flushed."

"I'm fine. Just tired, and I'm sitting close to the fire." To lend more credibility to her words, she moved the chair a few inches backwards. "There, that's better. Well, I'm curious to see it."

"See what?"

"Well, the birthmark of course. I promised Hermione I'd take her lingerie-shopping – poor thing, she was quite desperate for my help."

"Merlin protect us! Narcissa, tell me the truth – you and Lucius, you're not planning..."

"To, well, invite the two of you to" – she smirked – "keep us company? Now there's an idea. Hermione will be delighted to hear that you-"

"I did _not_ propose it!" Severus interrupted her indignantly. "And don't you dare tell Hermione that it was me!"

Narcissa shrugged. "You know how it is – a slip of the tongue happens so easily..."

He put his mug down on the table. "All right. What do you want?"

"So direct." Narcissa brushed a blond strand off her forehead. "But if you insist... Very well, Severus. You broach the subject to her, and convince her. Just think of all the fun we're going to have."

"Fun? You must be joking. She's going to castrate me, and that's the most favourable outcome I can think of right now."

With a sigh, Narcissa stood and walked over to sit on his lap. "Oh, Severus. Always the optimist. But let me give you some advice: what works best, if you mean to get a Gryffindor to do something they don't want to?"

"You mean dare her? I don't think so, Narcissa."

She shook her head indulgently. "No, not quite. Think again."

"Mmh..." Severus glanced up at her speculatively. "Forbid it?"

"Precisely. Besides, this is Hermione – what's her greatest weakness?"

"Curiosity. Of course!" He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. "Yes, this might actually work. Maybe..." He gently deposited Narcissa, drew his wand and levitated Hermione to lie on the floor next to Lucius. "To sow the seed of curiosity and defiance," he remarked. "But tell me, my dear, why you seem to have given up on your reservations so quickly? I know you weren't against our relationship, but you did seem a little hesitant."

Arm in arm, they contemplated the incongruous couple sleeping on the floor.

"Let us just say that tonight has brought some sort of revelation. I'm sure she is your perfect mate. Is there any of those delicious miniature Danish left, or has Lucius eaten them all?"

Two pairs of hungry eyes roamed what was left of the night's feast.

"I'm afraid not," Severus said finally. "But I'm in no doubt that Hermione will be making them for you as often as you want. After all, there's nothing like miniature pastry to nourish a nascent friendship, is there? And now let's try those cupcakes."

vvvvvvvv

Hermione and Lucius woke at the same time, both groaning and pressing trembling fingers to their foreheads.

They looked at each other and grinned sheepishly.

A rustling sound in the far corner of the room made them both turn their heads and reach for each other's shoulders for support – the room was spinning rather faster than they'd expected.

There, tinged golden by the first rays of morning light, Buckles was sitting on the floor, tailor fashion, and glancing sternly at a pitch-black raven and a pure-white pigeon perching on the coffee table. "If you is good birdies and doesn't craps on the carpet again, Buckles has a nice surprise for you." With a last stern glare at the avian couple he Disapparated with a pop.

Lucius and Hermione stared at each other, speechlessly.

"Is that…" Hermione cleared her throat.

"I suppose so," Lucius said. "Only…"

"Exactly. It couldn't be more clichéd, really. And" – she gingerly massaged her scalp – "that means they must've had quite a lot to drink."

Lucius turned a highly unbecoming shade of green. "Might I appeal to your famed generosity and ask you not to use that word in the foreseeable future?"

"I'll do you one better. _Accio_ Hangover Potion!" Two phials containing a pale-blue liquid burst out of the kitchen cupboard and zoomed straight into her hand. "It seems," she remarked, handing one to Lucius, "that my powers have recovered from the whi- erm, the you-know-what."

Lucius downed his potion and shook himself like a wet dog. "Merlin, I needed that." He bowed over Hermione's hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Thank you, Hermione. You have my everlasting… gratitude." It lasted longer than strictly prescribed by polite etiquette, and Hermione blushed.

Unseen by the two sitting on the floor, the raven nudged the dove with its wing. The dove uttered something that in a human would have been a chuckle, and motioned with its head towards the floor. Both birds half-hopped, half-glided off the table – not a second too early, because as soon as their feet touched the floorboards, the dove turned into Severus and the raven into Narcissa. They exchanged a glance and marched towards the bedraggled duo on the floor.

"This," Severus said in the most menacing tone of voice he could muster, "had better not be what it looks like."

Narcissa laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. "There now, Severus. I'm sure it's nothing like that. Now you'd best go off to your meeting, and I'll take Lucius home. Hermione, dear, you remember, don't you, that we have an appointment?"

"Appointment?" Lucius asked. His voice was still a little gravelly, but he'd at least managed to straighten his hair. He was eyeing Hermione's vivid blush with interest.

"Yes," croaked Hermione, "yes, it's, erm, very kind of you to remember that. I'll owl you, shall I?"

"By all means. Come now, Lucius, we really have to go home."

"What kind of appointment?"

"Nothing, dear. Nothing – don't wear yourself out thinking about it. Now give me your arm – there's a good boy."

They disappeared with a crack.

Hermione scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around Severus. "You know nothing inappropriate happened between me and Lucius, right?"

"Of course. You've only just met, and as far as I can tell, you don't even like him. Besides, he wouldn't be interested in you, so that's that."

"No?"

"No. And now I really have to go."

"Not even a little?"

"No. It's much better that way, believe me. I've yet to meet the woman who can resist him, if he really tries."

The slightly speculative look she gave him after they'd kissed goodbye told him all he needed to know. The thought might take a while to germinate and flourish, but the seed had been planted.

Curiosity and a warning. It was as simple as that.

That, and the awesome power of Italian patisserie. And lingerie.

Just the right ingredients to make life just the right degree of interesting.

He was looking forward to it.

vvvvvvvv

**THE DAILY PROPHET**

Monday, May 5, 2010

p.1

**MUGGLEBORN BAKER BECOMES FIRST FEMALE MEMBER OF POTIONS MASTERS' GUILD **

**I DECLINED FOR MY STAR STUDENT'S SAKE SAYS LOCKKHART**

By Rita Skeeter

As readers of this exclusive newspaper will be kind enough to remember, this reporter has been following the footsteps of War Heroine Hermione Granger since her early childhood, a time when but a few visionaries were able to foresee that she was destined for greatness. Nothing was ever able to shake this conviction, though, and even while Miss Granger dedicated her abilities to fashioning cakes for the pureblooded clientele that had only a few years before despised her, this reporter never lost her faith in the brilliant young witch.

It was therefore with satisfaction and pride that this reporter attended the ceremony yesterday at the Ministry for Magic, at which Mrs Hermione Granger-Snape-Malfoy, née Granger, was formally awarded the title of Potions Mistress and plenipotentiary member of the Potions Masters' Guild by none other than Wilberforce Grapple, the long-time president of this august body. Mrs Granger-Snape-Malfoy was accompanied by Messieurs Severus Snape-Granger-Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy-Granger-Snape, as well as Mrs Narcissa Malfoy-Snape-Granger. Their numerous offspring – adorable twins Circe and Morgana Granger-Snape-Malfoy (aged 4), saturnine, black-haired Drusus Snape-Malfoy-Granger (aged 4), sweet little Antonius Granger-Malfoy-Snape (aged 2) and adorable infant Belladonna Malfoy-Granger-Snape (aged 6 months) – followed the ceremony as attentively as the numerous and illustrious guests, among them none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, who was the first to benefit from Mrs Granger-Snape-Malfoy's ground-breaking invention, the Memory Spell Reversal Potion.

The formal ceremony was followed by a reception for three hundred guests; Mrs Granger-Snape-Malfoy, founder and owner of "Dolce & Grandioso", had herself provided the sumptuous selection of sweets for the buffet. Not only an outstanding scholar and Potions Mistress but also a pastry chef of the highest accomplishment, the new member of the Potions Masters' Guild was the first to try an "Animagus Cake" and promptly transform into a manatee, to the delight of all present.

While nibbling on a feather-light chocolate éclair, this reporter had the opportunity to converse with Gilderoy Lockhart, who had interrupted his trip to the Antarctica in order to participate in this memorable event.

"I was sure that the encouragement and private tutoring I gave Miss Granger at Hogwarts would one day come to fruition," Gilderoy confided over lemon meringue pie and trifle. "I would not go as far as claiming that she would not have reached a breakthrough eventually without my input, but my contribution was certainly the determining factor in her success. I did, of course, decline the Guild's offer of membership – you know me, I tend to avoid the limelight of public recognition of my merits – but I encouraged them to approach Miss Granger."

Continued on p.8

**THE END**


End file.
